


Made, Erred, and Stolen

by Phoenixflame88



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Dornish hijinks, F/M, Ficlet, Gen, House Lannister, House Martell, Kingsguard Problems, Memories, Pre-A Game of Thrones, UST, Vows what vows?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixflame88/pseuds/Phoenixflame88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some vows break so sweetly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Failed_to_Deanon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Failed_to_Deanon/gifts).



Her solar always smells of cinnamon and oranges, sometimes honey. She reclines now, reading from a small green book. Jaime does not know how the White Bull or Ser Barristan or any of his brothers can imitate furniture for so many hours. Some days, it seems like one man in a thousand could kill him in a swordfight, but a single day more of silent guarding will melt his brain straight out of his ears.  
  
He has sworn an oath to die of boredom. Two, in fact. One for his cloak, another for his sister. As much as he tries to keep them separate—to hate the oath he traded for a cloak, not the one he made for Cersei—some days they bleed together in his mind.   
  
The clatter draws his attention. She has dropped her book, nothing more. Something more, perhaps, for Rhaegar’s frail princess. Her eyes roll in annoyance but he is already crossing the solar. Sometimes, he forgets she is no longer bedridden. Or boredom has made overzealous courtesy appealing.   
  
“Allow me, your Grace.”  
  
His armor clanking overloud, he kneels and picks up the book, just as she shifts to reach for it.    
  
“ _Elia._ ” Her breath brushes his forehead. When he looks down, his face is close to hers. “No one says my name anymore.”  
  
It’s the wry amusement in her dark eyes and the gentle smile on her lips—it can only be that.  
  
Her lips taste of oranges and honey. They are soft, with little of Cersei’s ferocity, her teeth and smirks.  _Cersei_.  
  
He pulls back, blood racing. He has erred. He could laugh at the number of ways he has just erred. Which one was the worst? Which oath has he most flagrantly sundered? He knows Cersei still smirks, still carries on as the almost-Lady of Casterly Rock. While he rots here, vows nothing but brass rings hawked by a crooked street merchant.   
  
The princess studies him. Jaime has trouble reading her dark eyes but knows she misses little. Her silks whisper as she reaches up with a slender hand, gently pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. 

Jaime errs again.   
  
Her mouth is soft, not weak. Whatever role Elia bears in King’s Landing, she comes from a land of trysts and paramours. Her tongue makes a sweet kiss sensuous.   
  
A low, delicate laugh when she pulls away “I prefer you to my story.”  
  
The princess hides much behind her small smiles and dark eyes, but in that moment he understands her perfectly. The more sanctimony bound to an oath, the sweeter the stolen defiance. 


	2. Honor for a horse

Rhaegar’s son took half his mother’s blood when the grandmaester dragged him out. To hear the servants, Elia passed out from pain and her babe’s first nursing was from his unconscious mother. Except Jaime knows servants can be melodramatic idiots. Elia was awake.

It was not his assigned post. Since that day in her solar he had seen her little. However much he may roll his eyes at the vows that came wrapped in his white cloak, Cersei makes it feel like betrayal. Not a large betrayal—he’s not that knightly—but he thinks of her often enough that it steeps his thoughts.

But when Elia took to her bed in labor, Jaime wandered closer. Her cries drove him away, only to drag him back again, the shuffling gallant knight. Ser Arthur had noticed, and ordered him to stay still or leave. When Jaime took his place, the pale-haired knight’s lips curled in a dry smile. He’d always had that way about him, looking stoic without looking dour.

“You crossed blades with the Smiling Knight. Odd you blanch at childbirth.” When Jaime stayed silent, Ser Arthur’s smile faded. “That was thoughtless of me.”

Jaime shrugged. “It was years ago.”

Years ago, yes, but some things are too surreal, too strange to not remember in biting detail. He was more worried than Cersei; he remembers standing his ground when the maester ordered him away from his mother’s chambers. Her bent legs were bone white, apart from the blood. Though his stomach rolled he’d still snapped back at the old man. Father ordered him out in a voice undefiable.

Of course, Cersei was cleverer than that. She hid them in a nook even the servants couldn’t find. They couldn’t see, but they could hear. Much later, Father said something that made Jaime’s childish defiance seem kindly. He couldn’t hear all of it—the babe was crying too loud.

Louder than Rhaegar’s son. The maester had declared him healthy and whole, and Jaime wanted to backhand him and demand what of his mother. But years—scant few, though it seems longer when one pretends to be an armored statue—have made him someone who can hold his tongue when he _truly_ tries. Seldom he wants to try.

Elia’s voice rasped from a bloodless throat that she would hold her son. Ser Arthur let out a long breath, and that was when Jaime knew the knight was better at hiding his feelings.

“Aegon.” The princess made it sound like a dying wish. “You will record that.”

“But your husband—”

“—is not here.”

The crown prince was sent off on some task. Inconsequential, stupid. The order came from the small council as much as the king. The king to play his games with his loathed good-daughter, the small council’s for fear Rhaegar’s wife and son would die in childbirth. That was why Ser Arthur stood close in his stead.

Prince Aegon was named that day, and nursed from his ashen mother while she murmured at his silver hair.

Jaime knows the princess was sundered by her son, all the babe’s flushed complexion stolen from the half-dead mother. Thus Jaime ignores word about her as best he can. She is alive, or thereabouts. He wonders if it is weakness he cares.

“Ser Jaime,” greets Lady Ashara, her violet eyes guileless. Jaime knows this is a skilled act from times he has stood near the princess’s solar. The Dornish woman steps in close, on the edge of propriety. “My lady has need of you.”

The princess has summoned him to her chambers. Back to the place he does not want to go, not for any dislike of the princess, but everything else.

Still, curiosity has always been his bane.

Ashara opens the door without a knock. Jaime knows the princess spends most of her time alone and half-asleep. With Ashara if anyone, and she is quick to leave him. Jaime steps from the sun-brightened hall into her lightless solar.

Its dark enough he hardly sees the divan where she idly flipped the pages of her book. Or where he kneeled to pick up her book and found her face near his. The next door, already open, connects to a room even darker.

_How can this make anyone feel better?_

The two or three times he was sick enough a maester could drag him to a bed, his fever always broke at sunrise. Not even candles burns in Elia’s chamber, only a few cracks of light where the sun has fought around the thick draperies.

Still, he can just see her in the gloom. Her chambers are colorless but she seems pale and spent, lying against a stack of pillows. Her open eyes are set in a haggard face.

“Ser Jaime.” The words come out parched and crackly. A murmured curse, and she reaches for a goblet beside her bed. Taking a long sip, she speaks more clearly. “My daughter rides for first time today.”

 _And?_ He keeps his face blank, though he has no idea if she can even see it. She sighs at his silence, making him feel like he has missed some cue. 

“I wish to see her,” she continues. “There is a balcony over the stableyard, down the hall.”

Elia was almost breaking bread with the Stranger a fortnight ago. The princess is on strict bed rest, as Pycelle expects her to be even worse off than after Rhaenys. Jaime hears the goblet rattling as she sets it down.

“That would be unwise—”

“I would not ask _you_ if I wanted wisdom.”

It comes as a snap—the first temper he’s ever heard from her. Though if he’d nearly died in childbirth, then was left in this tomb, he’d be worse than irritated. Elia is usually quiet and careful, her sweet-sharp tongue shared with those she likes. Ashara, Ser Arthur, few others. Against his wanting he can’t help but remember that day in the solar. Sweet-sharp indeed, with a cool breath and warm hands.

His face must betray him as her next words are softer.

“I will see my daughter ride her first horse.” No shame, only resignation. “I can’t walk there on my own.”

“The maester thinks even less.”

Elia’s eyes narrow, and for the first time he is reminded of her brother. “Will he throttle you with that ugly chain?” A sad smile. “I’m sure your skill in swordplay cost you some blood. Good things are worth a little pain.”

Jaime knows what he _should_ say. He knows more about the Red Keep than he ever says. He has been told time upon time _you serve the king_. He should take his orders like he should take the Seven—kneeling to obey without question. It wasn’t so long ago he knelt at the Mother, at the septon’s command, to pray for his own newly-late mother. His bowed neck made him feel like a sheep awaiting slaughter.

A hand had settled on his shoulder. His father’s, rare enough his touch was. Lord Tywin hauled him to his feet, eyes hard, voice harder.

 _“Never - bow - when you will receive_ nothing _for it.”_

The septon never ordered Jaime to prayer after that. Not that he’d ever truly prayed, beyond the rushed-through lines his mother had first murmured.

Jaime has never given thought to children, but if someone tried to order him away from his blood, he could imagine no reason to obey. _And what vow are you breaking? You guard the king, not the maester._

He can imagine the expressions of the Hand, the Queen, _Ser Gerrold_ if any were to see the princess out of her chambers…but the balcony she speaks of is only a short walk. It is midday and few would be in the halls—Jaime has walked the Red Keep at all hours and grown accustomed to its habits.

In lieu of what he _should_ do, which holds no appeal, he offers a tight-lipped smile. “As my future queen commands.”

Elia can stand but the first step makes her hiss, face blanching and legs shaking before he hooks an arm under hers. Like as not his armor is almost as painful to fall against, but her breath stills. On the chair beside her bed is a swath of cloth. A robe or a Dornish gown, he can never be sure, but she holds out a hand when he takes it. No servants in earshot leave him to ease the silk over her shoulders.

“I can carry you.”

She breathes deep, eyes closed. “I will walk.”

Jaime is about to insist, to prevent her from harming herself, but it seems important to her to stay on her feet. He understands pride.

Few are in this wing of the Keep today. How the gods would laugh if the Sword of the Morning swept down the hall and saw the bedridden princess leaning against him. But no, he is off with the prince. They walk slowly, Elia’s hands digging into his unarmored wrist. He can see now her dressing gown is carmine, threaded with gold up the sleeves. The balcony door has been left open to air out the hall, and sunlight turns the walls almost white.

Jaime looks away when they step into the afternoon. Untangling herself, the princess walks the last two steps to lean against the balustrade. Though he is still squinting though the brightness, he sees the sun gives her a dash more strength. Her skin looks burnished, not the wan pallor she took as her son neared his birth, and her black hair glints with a dozen different colors. Idiot maester, to lock her up.

Still, her arms tremble against the stone balustrade. Jaime steps closer, now afforded the same view she was so damned set on.

In the stableyard below, Rhaenys sits on her mount. Jaime peers closer. It’s an odd horse—more slender than a palfrey, with a narrow face and chiseled neck. Its gray coat has an almost rosy tinge. 

“Is that a pony?” It seems too fine-boned, but also too short to be a horse.

Elia smiles. “A very small desert steed. From my brother’s stables”

“Its muzzle’s so small it could drink tea with the Queen.”

“Rhaella would  prefer that sweet face to most backbiting courtiers.” The princess laughs, just a little. Most think her soft, but with those she likes she’s closer to a courteous jouster than a simpering lady.

Jaime snorts. “It wouldn’t last a moment in a tourney list.”

Her eyes are half-hidden by her hair, but Jaime sees her grin widening. “Your horses lumber, ours dance. Oberyn rides them in tourneys when he’s bored enough.”

The little princess pays more attention to her young uncle than the stablemaster. Viserys is mounted too, face set with a gravitas that seems to be a game between them, given the girl’s grin.    

And yet, it seems a crime for the girl to never realize her mother’s efforts…

Jaime whistles and the princess looks up at the sound. Immediately the girl’s grin turns into a wide smile and with unexpected ease she nudges her little horse closer to the balcony. Elia scoffs at him and blows her daughter a kiss.

“I thought this was her first time riding?”

“By herself. Oberyn took her riding the last time he was here.” Her smile is smaller now, but Jaime sees her pride.

Her brother unexiled himself on a whim to visit his niece and sister. Ser Arthur was bemused for the first time Jaime can recall. Keep it from the king to keep the peace, or follow their duties to the letter? Ultimately the queen had offered her opinion, and the Kingsguard kept silent only because the king was in one of his melancholy moods and keeping to his chambers.  

Viserys and the stablemaster look equal parts confused, and so Elia calls down to her daughter one more time. “Enjoy your lesson, my sweet.”

If she cannot hear her mother’s soft voice, she seems to get the gist. Happily the girl turns her little mare back to her uncle, and the stablemaster resumes trying to hold her attention. Jaime and the princess watch the girl a little longer, as she finally lowers her heels and softens her wrists. Until Jaime notices Elia’s shoulders sinking.

“Princess?”

The reminder of her condition draws a sigh, but she at last takes his proffered arm. The hall is almost pitch black when they step inside. Elia manages a couple of aided steps before she mutters a pained oath. Stopping, still clinging to his forearm, her voice is a whisper. “Please.”

This is likely why Ashara asked him instead of escorting her herself. The princess shouldn’t be moving at all, he thinks, and perhaps his assistance only hurts her more. But if he had backed away from every harmful thing, he’d never have picked up a sword.

She’s light, too light, when he picks her up, one arm around her back and another under her knees. Her face wrenches in pain. It would be his luck to cause her some horrific injury. She goes silent, even her breath.

Squiring and knighthood have dealt him fewer injuries than most, but none becomes as good as he is without some bloodshed. Uncle Gerion always told him to breathe through a sprain, even if it was more natural to hold his breath. Thus his uncle would call him a foolish brat and trick him into talking.

“A little pain is worth it, you said.”

She nods, eyes closed, cheek against his shoulder. He feels her voice more than hears it. “You’ll understand.”

He grins. “When I become a mother? With this cloak it seems as likely as being a father.”  

Her breath tickles his neck as she laughs, just a little. Glancing down, he sees her eyes have opened a sliver, and her face looks less agonized than uncomfortable.

It is only a short walk to her chambers, crossing only one other corridor. But he hears the soft footsteps, just before the queen rounds the corner.

_Ah. This could almost be droll._

Queen Rhaella has all the beauty some speak of the Targaryens, but less of the capricious fire that has driven her ancestors to ruin. Or perhaps she is the only one who chooses restraint.

Reserve becomes his queen. Her waist-length white-gold hair is always pinned into waves and whorls. Her dresses favor high collars and long sleeves. That, he knows, is more because of her husband than modesty, but fuck history if it gets that right.

“Your Grace?”

Here he stands, the princess in his arms, her forehead against his neck. Elia looks over at her goodmother. Rhaella tilts her jaw, and walks up as if the princess is perfecting her needlepoint instead of clinging to a kingsguard.

“I expect Viserys will tell me all about Rhaenys’ first ride.”

Elia shifts, and Jaime can feel her flinch even through his armor, but her voice is warm.

“Your sweet boy will have a companion to race before the moon’s turn. I only fear the day Rhaenys realizes she cannot take up a lance.”

The queen smiles, a true smile that reaches her wide-set eyes. “I pity the guard following them.” Her gaze shifts, and Jaime feel an unspoken prompting to continue. The queen is quick to fall in beside them.

The only servant they pass avoids his eyes. Light has returned to the hallway, little of compare to the balcony, but even that seems an open plain compared to the cavern of Elia’s chambers. He opens her door and steps into the cinnamon-scented dark. He hopes, for pride’s sake, he hasn’t forgotten any furniture between here and her bedchamber door.

Beside her bed, she lifts her head from his shoulder. “Set me on my feet.”

Standing, wincing again, she pushes off her robe, offering her goodmother a grateful smile when she eases it off her shoulders. Despite the queen standing close, Elia takes his hand as she sinks slowly back into her bed.

“If you please, draw my curtains halfway.” The smile that ghosts across her face is somehow sad too. “This place half makes me forget the sun.”

He does as she asks. She winces at first, when light bursts into the room, but she seems more comfortable for it.

“Thank you, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime offers the reply expected of him. Whatever the queen’s lack of concern about her gooddaughter traipsing the halls, he is strangely aware he and the princess are no longer alone.

Of course, he scarce makes it five paces from her bedchamber when Rhaella steps out.

“Ser.”

The crown prince gets his iron tenor more from his mother than his father. Jaime stops and turns.

“Your Grace?”

She’s not her brother…husband…cousin…all of them, if he thinks long enough. Whatever their blood, Rhaella is calm and poised, touching his arm as she stands close.

“You did a good thing.”

If he remembers as hard as he can, he knows his mother had fond feelings for her, but he hears her warm tone more than her precise words. Thus he nods, respectfully as possible, and they walk in silence until she leaves his side.

Fitting, he supposes, this is one of the scarce few times he’s felt a knight since Ser Arthur’s sword tapped his shoulder.


End file.
